


Kiss

by alafaye



Series: Valentine's 2012 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a simple act that Sherlock understood meant to express affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a mini personal challenge of 14 pieces leading up to the dreaded holiday of Valentines in which the pieces are not the usual bits that pop up at this time of year.

Kisses. They conveyed affection, attraction, greetings. Sherlock had spent many hours in parks and stations and Heathrow studying how people kissed, what each kiss meant. He could now tell if a couple was brand new to their relationship, if one was cheating, how long they'd been together if he could see a couple kiss. Something so simple could mean so much. He wondered if they even knew what they betrayed in a simple act.

Sex and by extension kissing were not his area. Literally. He'd felt desire for another person only once and it had fizzled very quickly. (Victor had struggled with that, but as Sherlock had made it clear that it just was, it was not Sherlock's fault that Victor felt frustrated.) Kissing was very similar--it was disgusting, trading saliva and germs and whatever else with another human being. It just wasn't hygienic and he preferred to keep it as far from his person as possible. Still, he understood kissing and what it meant and what message it could send.

It wasn't until John Watson that he gained a small bit of understanding of why a person might desire to kiss someone else.

Oh, Sherlock had given Mummy a kiss or two now and then and she'd often kissed his cheek. But that was what one _did_ with one's mother. It was just how that went. 

But outside of her, Sherlock had no desire to kiss anyone else. He'd tried--Elizabeth Miller in seventh grade had been put out quite thoroughly and Victor, too, had put in a valiant effort--but it just...didn't work for him. He didn't understand the need any more than he understood sex.

John respected Sherlock's boundaries--from no kissing to no sex and everything in between. There were casual touches, meant to convey "look at this" or "behind you". Affection touches were not for either of them. (John admitted he was not the...what word did he use? PDA, yes. John said he was not the PDA type of person.) Both strictly British in public, their private lives kept behind closed doors as it should be. The public--especially their occasional coworkers from NSY--did not need to know what they did in their own flat, thank you very much.

Yes, they were in a relationship of sorts. If one called it that. Sherlock, of course, was not "dating" or "seeing" anyone else. John--either due to being happy with Sherlock or because of their work or some other reason--was not with anyone else either. Their relationship was the same as it ever was when John had first moved in. Coworkers, partners, flatmates. But after the pool and then when Sherlock had returned from Reichenbach Falls, there was something...more. More than friendship and partners. Something Sherlock believed was beyond any word or definition the current language offered.

It was a relationship, yes, it was. Sherlock knew that much. He didn't know what made a relationship or how others formed them, shaped them, lived with them, but he knew what he shared with John was a relationship. It was a feeling in his chest at the end of a case when they both somehow survived with nothing more than a wound. A feeling of coming home if he was with John, but certainly not in 221B. Warmth in his chest when John woke up, fuzzy from sleep; when John came home from a double at the clinic. It was _something_.

That was what mattered. Just knowing.

Where was he?

Oh, yes.

Kissing.

Kissing meant affection. A sign of appreciation and claiming. A message. 

There had been a few kisses, daring impulses they had both acted upon at random moments. John usually following a case involving a high level of danger--thankful they were both alive, thankful Sherlock had not died due to his usual lack of survival. Sherlock to see if he could, if it made John happy, if it made him happy. He approached it with the same mind as he would an experiment yet it wasn't. Kissing John was something so unique and different that that something in his chest that said John was his, grew or settled more with each kiss.

And now it was Valentine's Day. He dreaded this day each year--oh, to be sure, there were more domestics which only made the chance of a murder that much more possible. Yet it was the day--the month, really--when people lost more sense than they usually did. Focused on their partner or lack thereof. Finding a date. Buying something mundane, overdone, gaudy, unnecessary. Store fronts and restaurants exploded with red and pink and cartoon likeness of hearts and some ancient deity. (Enduring jokes about his lack of a love life and who would want him for a date? As though such trivialities mattered!)

Last year, Sherlock knew, John had not rushed to find a date, but he had a certain listlessness as he walked around the flat. Aware that he was in his thirties and alone and knowing that with his PTSD and Sherlock and the cases, he was the least likely candidate for dating. He still tried, but he was also aware of what women wanted and while John himself could present an ideal of dependency and normality, he was anything but. So, Valentine's and the time approaching it were spent in a bit of a depressing haze.

This year...he was with Sherlock.

Somehow, it made all the difference.

Sherlock didn't know how. Only this year, John was humming under his breath as the dreaded day approached. He was almost...cheery about it.

His thought process was interrupted as John let out with an aborted snore and rolled over. Waking up. Sherlock lay on his side, parallel to John and slowly put his arm around John. Sure enough, within moments, John was opening his eyes which slowly filled with confusion upon seeing Sherlock in his bed. They had shared a bed before and ever since he had "returned from the dead", there were more than a few nights sharing John's bed. But this was Valentine's--Sherlock loathing of the holiday was well known and he had made himself scarce last year as he had every year possible. And more, Sherlock was touching John.

"Right," John muttered, voice coarse from sleep. "What is it? What have you done now?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said. He cleared his throat when John only raised an eyebrow. "I'm given to understand that today is a day for love and I know how you may want to celebrate the holiday. I do not, never have. I'm sure you noticed that I was absent last year? This year, however, I want you to know that I do appreciate you, John."

John took a deep breath, looking rather unsure of the world was ending and what he could do to stop it, as his usual fashion. "I suppose I can understand that. I'll just go...make tea, shall I?"

Sherlock, frustrated that John had interrupted him and was even leaving the bed, grabbed his wrist as he made to get up and instead, kept John on the bed. Sherlock rose up on his knees and sat next to John. "I know we do not have what is defined by this society as a relationship. I would go so far as to say that it's unique and wholly impossible to describe. But it's...something and I want you to know that, in some way, I...love you."

"You've not taken anything, have you?" John asked cautiously. "I know I asked you to throw it all out, but you're you and sorry but I would not put it past you to have some hidden somewhere."

It was clear that John was too focused on what _could_ be wrong with Sherlock to think about what he was saying (though he supposed he could understand, neither of them talked about _them_ , but Sherlock avoided the subject like the plague). So, he did the only thing he wanted to--he kissed John. It wasn't the best kiss as John had been mid word and neither of them were pumped full of the body's natural chemicals. But it was a kiss and it felt good.

After, John opened and closed his mouth several times, at a loss for words. Sherlock nodded. "Right. That's all. Tea, did you say?" He bounded down the stairs to the couch where he lay on his back, trying to let that be it. Just a kiss--nothing more, just a simple expression of affection from one partner to the other. That was all it was. Nothing more.

After a trip to the bathroom, John was in the kitchen, making tea. An odd silence filled the space and Sherlock wondered what he'd done wrong. Should he have done it? Was John expecting more? Did John think it meant something else? Did John really think he was using again?

John handed him his cup and then brushed a kiss against Sherlock's temple. "Love you, too. Even if you make my life confusing."

Sherlock blinked and stared at his cup. Oh, well. All right then. Maybe John did understand. He smiled.


End file.
